Magic and Other Unnecessities
by jonghyundroppedthesoap
Summary: After being revealed as a squib to the entire Hogwarts cohort, Snape's new Potions Apprentice, Sherlock Holmes, is befriended by fifth year Hufflepuff John Watson. Something more ensues.
1. Chapter 1

John could barely believe it was already his fifth year. Some of the people he felt like he'd met just yesterday, and though he did know many spells, there was still a lifetime's worth to be discovered. He watched jovially as the first years came flooding in, stumbling over one another as they stared at the roof in awe. The sorting was always a highlight, he thought. The raw happiness on the kids' faces as their house was called warmed something in his heart, and everyone, if you disregard Harry Potter, was usually met with utmost enthusiasm from their house members. John looked over towards the Gryffindor curiously, unsurprised to see the fourth-year golden boy being hounded with attention.

He himself was in Hufflepuff. And it was amazing, really. He had a few mates in his house who he got along quite well with, the common room was always warm, and Professor Sprout was one of the more lenient head of houses. A study group had also been organized to accommodate students and there were a few girls he thought he might fancy taking to the newly announced Yule Ball.

"Hey, I heard the greasy git's got an apprentice this year." one housemate, Michael recounted excitedly during the Opening Feast.

Molly Hooper, a quiet girl the year below John, spoke up softly. "An apprentice? I didn't know Hogwarts allowed them."

"Surely Dumbledore will announce them with the rest of the staff."

But John wasn't quite sure. Scanning the head table, John could only pinpoint a few new faces, and none of them seemed young enough to be starting an apprenticeship. As the night gradually came to an end, it was concluded that no, Dumbledore was not introducing a new apprentice, and John briefly wondered if they ever existed at all. Rumours and gossip spread fast at Hogwarts, and this piece of information seemed to be no exception.

By the time tomorrow had arrived, John had forgotten all about the supposed apprentice until he walked into Potions class that morning. He saw him immediately. Tall, lanky, curly dark hair. In a way, his posture and dissecting stare almost reminded John of Snape, and he considered the possibility of them being related. But no. Snape having a family was a preposterous thought in itself, let alone being related to someone so oddly attractive. Embarrassed, John diverted his gaze and hurried to his desk, saving a seat for Mike Stamford – a short and stubby Ravenclaw who John had taking a liking to from their very first week at Hogwarts. It also helped that he was interested in a similar career path to John. He needed good grades for his OWLs that year to become a healer, and unfortunately for John, Potions was one of his prerequisites. Now Mike Stamford wasn't a Potions prodigy by any means, but he could at least mix together the required ingredients correctly without it ending in a hazardous disaster.

The rest of the class filed in, and as soon as everyone was seated and talking animatedly among each other, a door positioned at the front of the classroom burst open. Snape, as though it were tradition, stalked out with robes billowing behind him, and John had to suppress a gulp of fear at the sight. It wasn't necessarily as though he was afraid of Snape. He had never actually done anything to harm the class, after all. Rather, the man was just intimidating, and in the end, it was him who would make or break John's potential future. So, he listened to Snape's traditional introduction with unwavering eyes and a stiff back, drinking in every word. It was only when he began to introduce the new apprentice that John's attention was diverted. He took in the boy's appearance once again. He didn't appear to be much older than John, if older at all. In fact, he seemed particularly young, and John wondered why he wasn't a student at Hogwarts like the rest of them. Either he was a twenty-year-old who _looked_ fifteen, or he was a child genius who had graduated some years ago and had now returned to become a Potions master. John was putting his money on the latter.

"As many of you might have already noticed – though sometimes I do doubt your dismal observation skills – we have a new apprentice who will be accompanying us for the school year's remainder." Snape drawled, eyes flickering to the young man by his side.

The boy stepped forward, arms locked behind his back. He held himself with an air of dignity and his posh voice resonated throughout the room. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I… look forward to any future correspondence."

It was a little awkward and John cracked a grin. He was unprepared for the pair of piercing blue – no, green? – eyes which suddenly locked with his, and John suppressed a gulp. His grin faded to an unsure half-smile. But then Sherlock's gaze was elsewhere and John felt something clench uncomfortably in his stomach. The smile hadn't been returned and the look in Sherlock's eyes was haunting to say the least. Not that John blamed him, really. It was the boy's first day here, and he likely wasn't given the same lenience as the other students. John suppressed a shiver at the thought of Snape being his mentor. He was bad enough as a professor for two periods a week. He didn't even want to imagine what it would be like to have him breathing down your neck at all hours, day after day.

With the ingredients and method written on the board, the students were then instructed to begin on their Draught of Peace, and from then, the lesson flew by like any other. Before John knew it, he and Mike were handing their potion up for examination and shuffling out of the classroom in a hurry to reach their next class in time. McGonogall was not a woman to be messed with, after all, and John didn't particularly fancy a detention on the first day back at school.

* * *

That night, as was tradition, the fifth-year Hufflepuff boys sat in the common room drinking Butterbeer and eating Chocolate Frogs. John was sure he was going to be sick, but tradition was tradition, and he laughed along with the rest of the boys as they recounted the day's happenings.

"Any of you lads gonna enter the Triwizard Tournament, then?" asked James excitedly, giving John an enthusiastic nudge.

John grinned and took a sip of his Butterbeer. "Dumbledore isn't a bloody fool, y'know. We couldn't enter even if we wanted to."

Michael hummed in agreement. "A few blokes from Gryffindor tried it last night, I heard. Didn't work."

"You lot are party poopers."

John shrugged. "Just don't fancy myself being thrown out of the Great Hall, thanks. Go ahead, if you want. None of us are stopping you."

James rolled his eyes. "None of your sass now, Johnny. Just a friendly suggestion."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, you lot. Enough of that shit. How about the new apprentice, then, aye? Looks like a right twat." chortled Tod, currently stuffing his mouth with his fifth Chocolate Frog of the night.

Michael laughed loudly, a sound akin to a snort escaping his lips. "Twat? I think fairy is a bit more accurate, innit?"

Something churned in John's stomach. Suddenly, that second Chocolate Frog didn't look so appetizing and he smiled awkwardly at the other boys as they broke down cackling.

"Watch out, Snapey boy!" choked out James between laughs.

John wanted to tell them off. Was going to tell them off, really. But then his throat was clenching up with anxiety and all sound failed to escape. He simply watched as his housemates chuckled with glee at the expense of the apprentice, and suddenly, John didn't want to be there anymore. He stood up awkwardly, brushing the crumbs off his jeans. The boys looked up at him curiously.

"Where you going, Johnny?" asked James with a frown. "It's barely nine."

He balled his hands into fists nervously. "Yeah, right, um… Just a little tired, lads. Don't think this chocolate sits well with me. Sorry to be a let down."

"You owe us, hey John. But sleep well, mate." spoke Michael, giving him a friendly slap on the calf as he walked off.

Collapsing onto his bed, John let out a deep sigh of relief. After some deep thinking, the holidays had been enlightening, and well… Basically he wasn't as straight as he had initially thought. A few months ago, that conversation wouldn't have phased him in the slightest. But now, it was suddenly as though he didn't fit anymore. His housemates were behind a glass wall he just couldn't break and his voice no longer worked. He rubbed a hand over his face worriedly. He'd seen what Harry had to put up with at school and at home. He didn't much fancy the same for himself. Retrieving his homework from his bag, John hopped onto his bed before closing the curtains around himself. He wasn't in fact tired yet, and figured he may as well use his time wisely before the rest of the boys came up.

* * *

Three weeks into classes was when the rumour began. John wasn't certain where, and how, it began, but as soon as it was out in the open, the whole school was immediately on board.

"He's a squib, haven't you heard?"

"Yeah, apparently he cleaned everything up with his bare hands!"

"We don't need his filthy kind around here. Dumbledore's off his head."

"I heard he's related to that head boy… Mycroft!"

Every conversation in the Great Hall during breakfast was inherently the same, and by the time first period rolled around, John already possessed a throbbing headache. Apparently the new apprentice – Sherlock – was a squib. John didn't know how he felt about that. He hadn't met any other squibs before, and he didn't really harbour any prejudices regarding the matter. If his classmate's reactions were anything to be going off though, Sherlock was now equivalent to the dirt on the bottom of their shoes.

John wasn't quite sure about that. So far, the boy seemed more than adept at Potions, and made them with an almost Snape-like efficiency. What was even more inspiring, perhaps, was the multiple compliments John had heard Snape address Sherlock with. Not even the Slytherins were subject to such acclaim. Even if Sherlock couldn't do magic, he clearly made up for it with his skill in other areas, and for that, he retained John's respect.

Unfortunately, it seemed as though John was one of the select few with that mindset.

As soon as the students began filing in for Potions that morning, Sherlock was immediately victim to an onslaught of verbal abuse.

"Oi, Sherly! Heard you were having trouble with some charms recently."

This remark was met with a bout of chuckles, and John watched worriedly as Sherlock's head shot up to stare at the student with wide eyes.

"Yeah, sorry, hon." A Ravenclaw girl pouted with fake sympathy. "Secret's out." She shrugged.

John was fuming. After observing Sherlock's terrified face, John opened his mouth to give those other students a piece of his mind. His efforts were unnecessary, however, because in that moment, a sharp, low voice emitted from the corner of the room. Everybody's blood ran cold.

"One more word from your insolent mouths and this whole class will be serving detention with me for the year's remainder." Snape began, stalking out from the shadows and glaring down his nose at the class with contempt. With the class frozen, the professor then ordered the class to begin with their potions, subjecting them to complete silence for the lesson's remainder.

John had never been more grateful for Snape's existence. As he mixed his potion carefully – three clockwise stirs followed by two anti-clockwise – John's gaze kept lifting to study Sherlock's demeanour. It had calmed considerably since Snape's arrival, but John could still observe a hint of anxiety in the way the boy held himself. He wanted to say something. Comfort Sherlock somehow. But that was stupid. The two didn't know each other. John didn't owe Sherlock anything. And the rest of the class would riot if they saw John engaging with the _squib._ So he remained silent and simply continued on with his potion, shooting Sherlock concerned glances every few moments. If Mike had noticed anything, he didn't speak up. The two finished in good time, and John proceeded to clean their workspace as Mike wrote their names on the vial and took it up for perusal.

With that, yet another day passed with John holding his breath.

* * *

The remarks and bullying didn't stop there, either. Each Potions lesson, before Snape made his grand entrance, the students would try and get as many slurs in as possible. And every time, without failure, Sherlock met them with silence, simply staring with a curious glisten in his eyes. John heard people talking about the apprentice outside of Potions, too, at every opportunity possible. Apparently, one girl from Slytherin had even gone to Dumbledore to complain. John didn't see the point. Surely by now they were used to Dumbledore making odd decisions that were non-negotiable. But alas, other than the much anticipated Triwizard Tournament, there wasn't much to talk about, so John allowed to comments to filter in one ear and out the other.

Well, up until the beginning of October. That was when things began to change.

Their Potions lesson for the day had just come to a close, with Snape clearing his things and sweeping out the door much hastier than usual. That's when they'd taken their opportunity to strike. Mike had already left for Transfiguration, leaving John loitering behind to clean his mess and write some last minute notes from the chalkboard. He was almost finished, too, before a loud slam knocked him from his thoughts and prompted his eyes to shoot up towards the source of the sound.

John's grip on his pen tightened instinctively. Sherlock, who was similarly packing away his things, had been cornered, two Ravenclaws and one Hufflepuff boy lanking each side. John wasn't quite certain if they realised he was still there.

"Hey, freak."

John recognised the speaker as Sally Donovan. He had known she was a tough one – she was often confused for a Gryffindor, after all – but hadn't pinned her as a bully.

Since the first introduction, John hadn't actually heard Sherlock speak, so it came as quite the shock when he immediately opened his mouth to reply.

"Donovan." he nodded curtly.

John watched the interaction carefully, slowly filing his parchment away to appear occupied.

"When are you leaving, then?"

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Sorry?"

"Y'know… when are you going back to the filthy muggle streets where you belong? Surely you've realised by now that you don't belong. You're a squibbish _freak_ , Holmes."

John wasn't quite sure he'd ever heard the word 'freak' being used with such venom, and its direction at Sherlock made his blood boil for no reason in particular.

Sherlock hummed indignantly. "That's rich, considering your mother's a muggle. I wonder what she'd have to say about your _filthy_ opinion of her."

"How the hell did he know about your mum?" spoke the Ravenclaw boy, fixing a glare onto Sherlock.

Sally shrugged, embarrassed. "I don't fucking know, Roger. Shut up."

"Not hard to tell, considering you have a pen protruding from your left pocket and your robes are donning a magical family crest which reads your father's surname. Your father's obviously not a muggle, then, but why else would you have a muggle pen? Simple – you mother's a muggle and you're a half-blood. Not rocket science, Roger." Sherlock offered the group an awkward half-smile that more closely resembled a grimace, and that was as far as the verbal exchange went. Suddenly, Sally Donovan was shoving Sherlock's papers and books off the bench in a huff whilst the Ravenclaw boy, Roger, grabbed Sherlock by the robes and landed a punch directly by his left cheek.

John's heartbeat immediately picked up, and his wand was out in a flash. "Petrificus Totalus!" he yelled, instantly causing all three perpetrators to become rigid and immobile, collapsing to the floor unceremoniously. With them out the way, John maneuvered around his desk to check on Sherlock, lifting his gaze to be met with stunned eyes.

"Are you alright? Honestly, I should've stepped in sooner, but I didn't know if they were actually going to do anything and well, I don't know… Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded the affirmative, wide eyes still locked on John. "What you did just then… with the um, spell… that was good. Yes, quite good."

John's lips quirked into a small smile. "No, no, it was um, my pleasure, I suppose. Here, did you need me to..." John awkwardly gestured to the already forming bruise on Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock's hands subconsciously lifted to poke at his skin. "I mean, if it helps with your healer endeavours, go ahead."

John paused in his tracks. "Sorry… How'd you know about that? Me wanting to be a healer?"

"Hm? Oh, right..." Sherlock blushed awkwardly. "Well, first of all, your immediate reaction to me getting hurt was a dead giveaway. And also I, er, often help Professor Snape with the potion grading and you seem to excel at the ones with healing properties."

Now it was John's turn to blush. "You've marked some of my potions? Well that's awkward."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, not awkward at all. I mean, they're quite good, really. Most of them."

"Only most?"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock grinned slyly.

John huffed a laugh, taking that moment in the conversation to mutter a quiet healing spell. Sherlock watched with amazement as a soft light emitted from John's wand.

"That was brilliant, by the way." John interrupted softly.

"Sorry?"

"With how you knew that Donovan was a half-blood, and how I want to be a healer."

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by that remark. His eyes shone with something raw and joyous. "You really think so?"

"Yes, of course it was brilliant. Extraordinary."

A silence overcame them for a few moments at that, as though Sherlock needed a minute to collect himself. John busied himself by tidying the papers which Sally had so unkindly pushed from the bench.

"You know," Sherlock began hesitantly. "You're the first person here, other than the staff, of course, to actually hold a civilised conversation with me."

"Oh?" John lifted his head. Something akin to sadness suddenly overcame him as he regarded Sherlock. "Well, lucky me. You're quite interesting."

"Do you not care?"

"What?"

"That I'm a squib, I mean. The rumours are true, in case you hadn't noticed." Sherlock held himself with shame, as though he was anticipating a rejection at the newly revealed not-so-secret.

John snorted. "Are you kidding me? Of course not. In case all those other idiots haven't already noticed, you're a bloody Potions genius, and your lack of magic doesn't justify them treating you like dirt."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, John. Sincerely."

John finished scooping together the rest of Sherlock's belongings and carefully stacked them on the bench once more. "You don't have to thank me." he grinned.

"Perhaps not," another voice spoke, and as though their privacy was being severely violated, both John and Sherlock's eyes darted to the door. "But I do have to ask you, Watson, why on earth are you currently surrounded by three immobilised students and missing from Transfiguration class? Skipping class to abuse your fellow students?"

John swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "No… No, of course not, Professor Snape. I just, um… was writing some last minute notes and er, these guys were talking to Sherlock and er..."

"He was helping me, Professor. Nothing of deep concern."

Snape regarded Sherlock with an expression that read, 'We're talking about this later.'

"If you say so, Holmes. Watson: go to class."

John nodded sharply. "I'll head there right now, sir." With one last glance in Sherlock's direction, John hurried towards the classroom's exit, scooping up his own belongings on the way out. If Snape hadn't believed their story, he never let on.

After what he now labelled, 'The Meeting', John spent the remainder of the day wondering when, and if, he'd be able to speak to Sherlock again. Apparently, it was to be sooner than anticipated.


	2. Chapter 2

It was subtle, but from that fateful day, John began to notice Sherlock dropping him helpful hints and tips during Potions class. The assistance was barely noticeable, really. A few times he had handed John the exact ingredients needed without a word, allowing an extra five valuable minutes on the potion itself. He'd corrected John's stirring direction with a flick of the head on two occasions, and once, he'd even whispered that John would have much better results if he opted to squash his ingredients as opposed to slicing them. They were small, but the tips were undoubtedly helpful and both Mike and he had noticed a considerable difference regarding their potion outcome.

John had been wanting to engage Sherlock in another conversation again, but with hectic schedules and Snape always rushing Sherlock around, it was difficult to get a word in. So alas, weeks passed with nothing except the dull routine of Hogwarts life. Enthusiasm was picking up again in the castle with the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students impending arrival, and even John found himself being carried away by the excitement of it all. The boys in the dorm had begun taking bets on who they suspected the Hogwarts champion would be, and so far, the nominees had been narrowed down to three candidates: Cedric Diggory, Greg Lestrade and Angelina Johnson. Most of them, including John, had their money on Cedric, though it may have been the house-bias talking. Michael defended that Angelina had a great chance, but the rouge on his cheeks indicated that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Eventually, their arrival did in fact come, and John watched with the rest of the Hogwarts cohort in awe as a large carriage appeared from the stars, followed shortly by the shocking emergence of an underwater ship. The students cheered in amazement, and John's smile was so wide he thought his cheeks might have burst. Eyes bright and morale even brighter, cheers filled the air. It was all quite overwhelming, really. Nothing this important had happened at Hogwarts since John's arrival, and part of him wished he could play a larger part in it all. After their entrance ceremony, it was announced that the champions' names would be called at the Halloween Feast the following day, and everyone rushed off to their common rooms with no intention of sleep in their minds.

Lying in bed, John tried thinking about Hogwarts' new additions, but alas, his mind kept drifting back to a certain Potions apprentice. He wondered if Sherlock would be at the feast tomorrow. So far, he hadn't made any public appearances, but tomorrow was the Halloween Feast. Surely he ought to be there. After all, it was quite potentially, the most important day in Hogwarts' history. Besides, Snape would surely drag him along, right? With this hope in mind, John finally succumbed to sleep, breaths even. Little did he know, this castle contentment was not to last for long.

* * *

"Harry Potter!"

Nobody could believe their ears. Harry Potter, chosen as champion? Cedric had already been selected for Hogwarts, and rightfully so. The Great Hall was in absolute uproar, including the commonly calm Dumbledore, and the students watched with raised brows as the staff raced to follow Harry into a room separate from the remaining students.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" scowled James. "Cedric's our champion, not that cheating git!"

John diverted his gaze. He was equally as confused as the rest, but didn't fancy laying all the blame on Potter. He seemed to be the most shocked of them all – almost as though he didn't want to enter the tournament or had never entered to begin with. Looking around, John's eyes immediately fell to a figure by the head table who appeared to be staring right at him. Squinting his eyes, John's face erupted with joy upon realisation. He slipped out of his seat hurriedly, ignoring Michael's cries of protest.

"Hey there." he grinned, smiling up at Sherlock. "Bit of drama for your first appearance here, aye?"

"Just a tad." Sherlock quirked a small smile. "Professor Snape made me attend."

"I figured he would."

Sherlock glanced around the room for a few moments, eyes narrowed. "Why is it that everyone's so surprised? His name was called out like everyone else's."

John blinked. "You know who that is, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but there was a sort of fondness behind it. "Obviously, John. I'm a squib, not a muggle off the street. But what makes Harry Potter's name different from the others in this case?"

"Ah, that's probably because he's, what? Fourteen. Dumbledore made an age line so that it was impossible for anyone under seventeen to enter the tournament."

"Oh." Sherlock nodded slowly. "Well, that is quite odd then, I suppose. Fancy a walk?"

Caught off guard at the sudden change of topic, John gaped.

Sherlock coughed. "Only a suggestion."

"No, um, no… Of course. A walk sounds good."

"Perfect. Come on, then."

With that, John was following Sherlock through the rioting crowds and out of the Great Hall, bashfully ignoring the looks his housemates were casting him. Possessing much shorter legs than Sherlock, John struggled to keep up, maintaining an awkward hop-step kind of stroll. "Where are we going?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock looked back, slowing suddenly at the realisation that John was lagging behind. "Just thought we'd walk around the grounds. Sorry for the rush, I hate crowds like that."

John shrugged with understanding and the two of them matched pace, Sherlock shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his coat. It was silent, mostly, but John felt calmed by the other boy's presence at his side. Reaching the Black Lake, Sherlock paused, eyes staring into its expansive depths. John looked up at him curiously, lips parting in wonder at the way the moonlight reflected against his pale skin.

"Here will do," Sherlock spoke suddenly, and John looked away abruptly in embarrassment.

"Sorry… will do for what?"

Sherlock grinned, sitting down and allowing his back to fall against the grass below. "Stargazing, of course."

John huffed a breath of laughter at the oddity of it all, but showed no hesitation in following Sherlock and lying down beside him. "Wouldn't have taken you for an astronomer."

"Oh, no. That stuff's all rubbish. Doesn't mean I can't appreciate the beauty of it, though." With that, his head turned to face John, lips tilting in mirth.

John's breath caught in his throat. Swallowing thickly, John looked away, staring at the stars above. "How old are you, by the way? You don't look any older than me."

"I'm sixteen."

"Oh."

"Why, how old are you?"

"Fifteen."

Sherlock snorted. "Guess your deduction skills are a little weak, then. One year older."

"Shut up." John smiled. "Pretty amazing that you're already an apprentice. How did that come about?"

"Well, um, I grew up in a magical household, as you know… And after my letter never arrived," Sherlock paused at this, as though he were ashamed. "I was devastated, really. I think my parents were holding onto the hope that I was a late bloomer. But anyway, after spending a year in a slump, my brother suggested I try making some potions. It's different from normal magic because technically, a wand isn't required. Just ingredients and a cauldron. And well, it was amazing. I've always had an affinity for chemistry and science, so Potions came as second nature to me. And after a few years of stealing my brother's school books and my parents library supply of recipes, Mycroft offered to talk to Professor Snape on my behalf. Guess his pompous ass is good for something."

John listened in wonderment. "So I guess you're some type of Potions genius then, huh? That's amazing."

If Sherlock's ears had burned red at the compliment, John opted to remain silent.

"Genius, no, not quite. That title is reserved for someone like Professor Snape."

"I think you're the only person at this school who actually likes him."

Sherlock shrugged. "I mean, he's a bit of a git to the Gryffindors, yeah, but… He's helped me a lot. He's alright once you actually have a normal conversation with him."

"Huh." John found that hard to believe, but decided to take Sherlock's word for it.

A comfortable silence encompassed them in that moment, and John was perfectly content to just lie beside Sherlock and listen to their synchronised breathing. He couldn't quite recall when he'd last been this calm, and revelled in Sherlock's presence. Very briefly, the thought of taking Sherlock's hand in his crossed John's mind, but he hurriedly stowed it away and berated himself internally.

Eventually, the outside chill began to worsen, and John found himself shivering unconsciously.

"C'mon, then. Let's get you back inside." John looked over to see that Sherlock was already standing up and shimmying his coat off. He held it out in offering. "Here, take this. I wonder what time it is."

Taking the coat with wide eyes, John cast a brief _Tempus_. "Sweet Merlin, it's already past 10:00!" he exclaimed, worry overcoming his features.

"Don't worry, hurry, put it on."

John did as asked, feeling quite stupid with the sleeves reaching past his fingers. Sherlock stared at John for a brief moment, something akin to affection swimming in his eyes. "Here," he mumbled quietly, moving closer to John so that he could flip the collar up.

John held his breath.

"You don't quite look like me, but it'll do."

John cracked a grin. "That was your genius plan? To disguise me as you so I don't get caught after curfew?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not, John. It's to keep you warm, obviously. Now come on, before I catch hypothermia."

With that, he was off, striding back towards the castle at a quick pace. John took a moment to process what had just occurred. Sherlock had just given him his coat. To keep him warm.

 _Sherlock had just given him his coat to keep John warm._

Biting his lip at the thought, John let out a quiet squeal of joy before racing off after Sherlock, short legs shuffling through the grass in an attempt to keep up.

Thankfully, he made it back to the Hufflepuff common room without incident that night, Sherlock's coat still wrapped snugly around his shoulders. And if he happened to fall asleep with it still by his side, well… Sherlock didn't have to know.

* * *

Over the next few days and weeks, Sherlock and John made sure to meet by the Black Lake on frequent occasion. Their conversation topics were vast, and John savoured each and every one of them. He learnt more of Sherlock's childhood and his family dog, Redbeard, while Sherlock deduced that John was a half-blood, had an older sister Harry and liked to play Quidditch.

"You could play Quidditch if you wanted, right? It's just a flying broomstick – no spells needed."

Sherlock frowned in thought. "I don't know, actually. Never tried."

"You've never ridden a broomstick?!"

"No, Mycroft thinks they're brutish and since I never showed an interest in Quidditch my parents never bought me one."

"That's insane. You can ride mine if you want!"

Sherlock blinked. "Sure, okay."

John grinned widely.

Soon enough, John began skipping lunch and bringing food down from the kitchens so he and Sherlock could spend more time together.

"Does Mad-Eye Moody seem a bit… I don't know… _off_ to you?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is that the eye guy?"

"Duh."

"Oh, right. Then yeah, definitely. Haven't trusted him from the beginning."

John nodded. "I can't put my finger on it but he just gives me a weird feeling. He teaches us some really fucked up spells, too."

This sparked Sherlock's full attention. "Like what?"

"The Unforgivables."

"What?! The Killing Curse?"

John nodded, solemn. "All three of them. On a helpless spider."

Sherlock frowned, deep in thought. "He's always drinking from that vial, too. Wonder what it is."

John sighed. "No idea… Just gives me the creeps."

On one of these usual days, as John was making his way down to the lake, he was intercepted by an out-of-breath Sherlock. His cheeks were red and his eyes were sparkling with an unspeakable excitement. "John!" he exclaimed. "You have to check this out!"

And with that, before John could even utter a word, Sherlock had grasped John's hand tightly and was dragging him back towards the castle. Their legs moved quickly up the stairs, ignoring the few passersby who gave them odd looks. "Sherlock," John puffed, "where on earth are we going?"

"No time for questions, John. It's amazing, you'll see!"

Seven flights of stairs later, John felt as though he was about to collapse, but Sherlock still appeared as excitable as ever. "You can get a drink in a second, just _wait._ Now… see that wall there?"

John looked. A blank wall. "...Yes."

"Okay! Now, with this exact thought in mind, walk past the wall three times: 'I wish for a room to relax.'"

"Sherlock, what the hell is this about?"

Sherlock was bouncing on his toes by this point. "Don't worry about that and just trust me, John. Do as I say."

John exhaled heavily. "Okay, okay, fine. Here goes."

' _I wish for a room to relax.'_

' _I wish for a room to relax.'_

' _I wish for a room to relax.'_

"Okay, done. Now what was the purpose of –"

"Look, John!"

John turned his head to stare at the wall. And felt his jaw drop to the floor. In place of the blank wall, a huge door had suddenly appeared which John was 100% certain was not there before. "What the..."

Sherlock jumped – _jumped –_ in excitement, hurrying towards the door. "Quickly now, no one can see us!"

Sherlock opened the door and John followed behind loyally, risking a glance behind to make sure no one was trailing them. Once inside, the door closed behind them, and John turned his head to gauge his surroundings.

"Mother of Merlin."

Before them was a sizeable room with an appearance similar to that of his common room. A few armchairs were placed facing each other on one side of the room, a large fireplace accompanying the area. Behind these chairs stood a large bookshelf filled to the brim with reading resources and John could practically feel Sherlock's brain beside him whirring with anticipation. Finally, to the left of the room sat a large sofa, a round coffee table positioned before it stacked with a kettle and an assortment of tea. This area of the room was illuminated by a large antique lamp, and John felt himself stumbling at the sight of it all.

"It's perfect." muttered Sherlock.

John nodded, speechless. He turned to face Sherlock. "How on _earth_ did you discover this?"

"It was by accident, really. I was up here pacing because I'd spilled some really valuable ingredients of Professor Snape's and well… I just kept wishing that I could find some more somewhere. The door appeared out of the blue, and when I looked inside, well… It was a giant Potions lab filled to the brim with ingredients. Apparently, it gives you whatever you wish for."

John simply shook his head in disbelief. "You brilliant, brilliant man."

"I'm only sixteen, John." Sherlock defended, but John knew for a fact that he was blushing at the compliment.

"Doesn't make it any less true."

"Whatever." Sherlock grinned. "Tea?"

"Merlin, yes."

As Sherlock moved towards the sofa to make them some tea, John hurried towards the armchairs. Collapsing on the farthest one, he made a satisfied sound. "This is so soft, Sherlock. You have to come sit here once you're done."

"I want to check out the books, first."

"Of course you do, you nerd." John winked, splaying out on his armchair and smiling at Sherlock fondly. "My favourite nerd."

Sherlock failed to hide his smile. "Shut up." he mumbled, happiness lacing his baritone voice.

John chuckled loudly.

He could get used to this. Boy, could he get used to this.

* * *

It was safe to say that Potions was much different now. It had become a kind of common knowledge that John Watson was now friends with the squib apprentice, so the two didn't hesitate in talking during class. Sherlock's helpful hints had also increased phenomenally, the two of them bashfully ignoring Snape's raised brows at their continuous interaction during class time. Mike, on the other hand, didn't seem at all surprised by the change. Rather, he often joined in on their conversations and regarded them with an eerily knowing smile. John had no clue what that was all about.

Gossip was still going crazy about Harry Potter, and John was vaguely aware that many of the students had even gone so far as to wear 'Potter Stinks' and 'Support Cedric Diggory' badges in spite. It seemed that with his absorption in Sherlock, John had avoided a large phase of the school year and with that, his connection with his housemates. John had expressed this to Sherlock during one of their (now daily) meet ups in the Room of Requirement.

"You're my best friend." he had spoken quietly into the silence. It was a random thought, but, John concluded with clarity, a very true one.

"I'm sorry?"

"You. You're my best friend."

Sherlock looked stunned. "Me? John Watson's best friend? What… What about those Hufflepuff boys? Jamie?"

John snorted. "You mean James? And definitely not. Nope, it's you, alright. You're my best friend."

"Wow."

Huffing a laugh, John nodded. "Yep."

"Well..." Sherlock spoke, looking up at John with pink cheeks. "If it makes any difference, you're my best friend, too."

"Yeah." John had mumbled, blissfully content. "It makes a difference. Thanks."

"Anytime."

Unfortunately, that very same night, as John lay in his dormitory bed willing sleep to take him, this blissful contentedness was to be rudely interrupted. Abruptly, his curtains were pulled back to reveal his housemates standing on the other side, firm expressions on their faces. "What the hell?" John muttered, squinting at the intrusion of light.

"So..." started Michael. "You a fairy, then?"

John sat up, stunned. "I'm sorry? Hi?"

"Don't act daft, John. Are you seriously," James exaggerated a shudder, "shagging that dirty squib?"

Heart rate increasing exponentially, John sputtered. "What the _fuck_ are you all on about? Interrupting my sleep for this bloody nonsense."

"We ain't stupid, y'know. Spending every second of the day with him, running off to Merlin knows where, wearing his bloody clothes. I saw ya, y'know… After the Halloween Feast. Wearing his coat. You've been ditching everyone since. Haven't held a proper conversation with you in weeks, Johnny."

John could feel anger thrumming in his veins. Pushing the others back, John slid off his bed and stood before them, glaring menacingly. "First of all, all of _this,"_ John gesticulated wildly, "is none of your business. How dare you all come here, while I'm trying to sleep, and fucking try and accuse me of shit you know nothing about. Second of all, Sherlock's my friend, so if I hear you call him a dirty squib once more, I won't hesitate to hex you. If you wanted to know what was going on, oh, I don't know, maybe you could have asked me politely like normal human beings, but apparently, you're all too delusional to care about common decency any more."

"We've been trying to talk to you for ages, John. We never get a chance, mate." interrupted James, seeing where this was going. "Yes, we're sorry for interrupting you like this – it's rude – but when else can we ask you?"

"Fine, okay, yeah. I've been a little negligent towards you guys but… are you kidding me? 'So… you a fairy then?' What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well..." started Michael, having the audacity to look as though his next words were justifiable. "We just figured, y'know, if you were a fag, that we should have the right to know. I don't know, to move the beds or something."

James' eyes widened and hurriedly opened his mouth to say something in Michael's defence. But it was too late.

They heard the crack before they saw it.


	3. Chapter 3

John sat, head bowed, listening to the words currently being exchanged between Cedric Diggory and Professor Sprout.

"I could hear a bit of a ruckus up there, yeah… Apparently Watson… I'm not sure of the full story..."

John could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation with the two speaking in such hushed voices, but knew nonetheless that all the blame was going to be placed on him. Beside him sat James and Michael, the latter with a recently healed and cleaned nose, and the three purposely avoided all eye contact with one another.

"Now, boys." spoke Sprout, redirecting her attention. "Cedric tells me that the three of you got into a bit of a scuffle. Care to tell me the details?"

John remained silent, gaze locked on his tattered and hopelessly uninteresting shoes. Speaking wouldn't help him in this scenario. Sure, he had acted in retaliation, but retaliation from what? Being called a 'fag'? The word itself brought bile to the back of John's throat and he fruitlessly tried to redirect his thoughts.

"Somebody? Anybody?" prompted Sprout.

"John punched Michael, ma'am." muttered James. "There's not much else to it."

"And John? Why did you feel the need to punch Michael?"

John felt sick. This was hopeless.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Dunno." he muttered.

"You don't know?"

John shook his head, willing his eyes to remain dry for the time being. "No, ma'am."

"So…" Sprout paused, as though she was trying desperately to understand the situation. "You just felt like it?"

John clutched the sides of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white and tried desperately to calm his breaths. "Yep." he replied, popping the 'P'.

Sprout was going to think he was a psychopath. But anything was better than the truth.

He heard her exhale loudly. "Michael? Anything to add? Anything that might have provoked John?"

John listened intently.

"No, Professor Sprout. Like we said, he just hit me for no reason."

And boy, he had never wanted to scream louder in his life. He resisted shooting Michael a side-glare and simply kept his head down.

"Right. Well, in that case, you two," John assumed she was gesturing to Michael and James, "are dismissed. And as for you John, just stay here a moment longer."

John waited until Michael and James had shuffled out of the room before lifting his gaze. Cedric was still standing in the corner of the office, hands in pockets. Their eyes met and John quickly diverted his gaze. "Is he gonna leave, too?" He was aware he sounded slightly rude, but John couldn't bring it within himself to care in that moment. There were too many emotions racing through his head and he just wanted to be left alone.

"We're just going to discuss your detention, John. Nothing personal. Unless there's something you'd like to add now?"

He was tempted. Merlin, was he tempted. But he simply couldn't bring himself to say it, and instead shook his head. "He can stay then, I guess."

"Alright. You honestly look really torn about all this, John, so how does this sound? Ten points from Hufflepuff and an evening detention with Professor Snape?"

John shrugged. "That sounds fine, ma'am."

"Good… I'm glad. Cedric could you escort him back to his dormitory, please? And Mr Watson..."

John looked up, surprised at having been addressed by his surname.

"If something is wrong, please don't hesitate in letting me know. I don't bite." Professor Sprout offered him a warm, motherly smile, and John attempted a small grin in return.

"Thanks, Professor. I'll keep that in mind."

"No worries, John. I'll see you in Herbology tomorrow."

With that, Cedric and he began to make their way from the Greenhouses and back towards the castle, John's head down shamefully.

"You know…" the prefect began out of the blue. "Whatever it was they said, you could have told her. She's probably the most understanding teacher at this school."

John licked his lips. "It was nothing, don't worry about it."

Cedric paused suddenly, and John looked up, startled. "It was about that apprentice, Sherlock, wasn't it?"

"W-How?" John stuttered, eyes wide with uncertainty.

Cedric offered a sympathetic smile. "Knew it. It's just, uh… They talk a lot. In the Great Hall, y'know? Pretty nasty stuff, so I just figured..."

Swallowing uncomfortable, John shoved his hands in his (pajama) pockets. "What kinda stuff?"

"Like hell I'm telling you, kid." Cedric chuckled. "Seriously though, if it becomes more of an issue, talk to Sprout. Trust me." Cedric winked before turning and continuing on to the castle. John frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean? With a frown, John vowed to forget about it before following after Cedric, hoping to Merlin that detention with Snape tomorrow evening wouldn't be absolute torture.

* * *

The next day, and more importantly, detention, came much too quickly for John's liking. He'd lasted the whole day on three hours of sleep, utterly exhausted by the amount of protective spells he'd cast over his own bed. Frustrated and confused, John had completely disregarded his daily meeting with Sherlock, wallowing in his bed until 7:00pm came and it was time for detention.

He knocked on the door to Snape's office, nerves coiling in his stomach.

"Enter," came Snape's voice, and John prayed to a higher being that Snape was in a good mood today.

He entered hesitantly, poking his head around the corner.

"Yes, yes, come in, Mr Watson." Snape drawled impatiently, eyes lifting to study John.

"Sorry, sir." John swallowed thickly. "What would you like me to do, Professor?"

Snape flicked his head towards a desk, on which sat a roll of parchment, a quill, and four dirty cauldrons. "One hundred lines followed by a squeaky clean cauldron. Continue until I dismiss you."

John wanted to sink into the floor and never reappear. "Okay, sir. And what would you like me to write?"

Snape offered John a sour grin holding more resemblance to a grimace. "' _I will not barbarically assault my housemates."_

John gaped in disbelief at the audacity.

"Problem, Mr Watson?"

Morphing his frown into a smile, John shook his head forcefully. "Not at all, sir. I'll get right to it."

He'd finished one hundred and fifty lines and one cauldron before Sherlock made an appearance.

"John!" he'd exclaimed upon entering, features morphing between disappointment and confusion. "Why weren't you… Why aren't you?–"

"Mr Watson is currently serving detention, Holmes. You'd be in your right mind not to distract him." interrupted Snape, shooting Sherlock a knowing glare.

Sherlock stumbled, biting his lip anxiously. "Right. I'll just… fix those up." he gesticulated to a random bundle of equipment on the shelves by John's work station, and John suppressed a grin at Sherlock's utter transparency.

Snape harrumphed nonchalantly, rolling his eyes and redirecting his gaze back to the pile of essays on his desk. Making his way over awkwardly in an attempt to appear inconspicuous, Sherlock's head peaked over to study what John was writing, eyes widening in disbelief.

" _What happened?!_ " he mouthed, concern overcoming his features.

" _Nothing, don't worry."_ mouthed John in reply, shaking his head firmly and staring resolutely at the parchment before him.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "John," he whispered. "Please tell me."

John's head shot up to glare at Sherlock. "What does it look like?" he spat back.

Stepping back as though scalded, Sherlock blinked at John confusedly. "You hit someone? James?"

"Michael," corrected John. But he wasn't in the mood to talk. Why couldn't Sherlock just understand that?

"But why? What did he say to you?"

John sighed, putting his quill down. " _Nothing_ , Sherlock. I just felt like it, okay?"

Sherlock shook his head frantically, stepping forward to tap his fingers on John's desk. "No. You're not like that. What did he say?"

John breathed deeply through his nose in a desperate attempt to calm down. Apparently, silence was not the correct answer.

"John? What did he –"

"I said _nothing,_ Sherlock! For fuck's sake, just piss off!"

The room fell silent.

Sherlock stood, staring at John with wide, heartbroken eyes. His chest was expanding heavily, as though he was having trouble breathing, before all of a sudden he turned away from John and stormed from Snape's office.

John pushed back his chair hurriedly, standing to chase after his best friend. "Sherlock, wait!"

He'd fucked everything up. Of course he had. He'd ruined it all.

"Mr Watson. Sit back down." Snape sneered. "You're still serving detention in case it… slipped your mind."

John's fists clenched helplessly by his side. "But, he…"

"Sherlock will be fine. After that god awful display he obviously needs some time to himself."

Resolutely shaking his head, John looked at Snape desperately. "Please, sir. I need to apologise."

"And you can do so once the both of you have calmed down and collected yourselves. The faster you finish your detention the faster you can go find him. So _sit down_ and finish your lines."

That was the end of the conversation. With tears threatening to spill, John finally surrendered and sat down, blurred vision spurring him to write even faster. Snape was a git, yeah. But John supposed he had a point.

* * *

John had never ended up finding Sherlock. After his detention with Snape he'd looked in all their usual spots – the Room of Requirement, the Black Lake and even the Great Hall – but alas, he was nowhere to be found. John wanted to die. It was no rocket science that Sherlock didn't have many friends, but John had let his anger get the best of him nonetheless. Their last conversation kept repeating itself in his head. How easy it would have been to say, "I'll tell you later when Snape's not around. It's not important, I promise." But instead, he'd chosen to be a massive twat, potentially chasing his best friend off forever (or an other indefinite amount of time.)

So when the first task of the Triwizard Tournament eventually rolled around, it was safe to say that John was a little less than enthused than the other students. He watched, of course, and cheered for Cedric. He had a little house pride, after all. But it just wasn't the same with that constant guilty conscience weighing him down. His year level housemates had all ditched him for the time being, John didn't have many friends in the other houses, and Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He was lonelier than ever. By the time all the Hufflepuff's were heading back to the common room to celebrate Cedric's success, John had had enough. He stayed for a short time to briefly congratulate Cedric, but excluding that, he made an effort to avoid everyone else. A majority of the seventh years (and a few of the sixth years) had made sure to bring an abundance of Firewhisky to share, meaning that John had no qualms in stashing some away in his satchel before ditching the after party.

He needed to find Sherlock.

Immediately, he headed for the Room of Requirement. It was the most logical place he could think of, and figured that if Sherlock wanted to be alone, that's where he would first go.

' _I need a room to relax.'_

' _I need a room to relax.'_

' _I need a room to relax.'_

He looked to where the door should have appeared, cursing at the sight of a simple blank wall. He gave it another go.

' _I need to find Sherlock.'_

' _I need to find Sherlock.'_

' _I need to find Sherlock.'_

His head shot over again, face melting with relief at the familiar large door in lieu of a wall. Breathing in deeply, John braced himself before pushing the door open, poking his head around the corner. While this room bore similarities to their usual, there were a few noticeable differences John found himself gaping at. First, all traces of the large bookshelf were gone completely. In its stead was instead another sofa on which Sherlock was currently lying, fervently playing a violin which John was certain he'd never seen before. He looked closer to gauge that Sherlock's eyes were closed, and decidedly shut the door behind him as gently as possible.

The music was, in simple terms, beautiful. John watched with wide, enraptured eyes as Sherlock effortlessly handled the fragile instrument, seemingly unaware of John's presence. It was a sight to behold, indeed. Carefully, John made his way to his usual armchair, collapsing onto it soundlessly and closing his eyes. He might have fallen asleep within a few minutes, too, if all of a sudden, the music hadn't come to a complete halt.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice quietly. Hesitantly.

"Hi, Sherlock." whispered John in reply. Turning his head around to face Sherlock, he tried to convey via expression how very remorseful he was. "That sounded beautiful, by the way."

Sherlock offered a half-smile in return, putting his violin down and moving to accompany John on the armchairs.

"It was the first task today, you know. Of the Triwizard Tournament."

"Oh?"

"Yeah… Hufflepuff are holding an after party to celebrate."

Sherlock quirked a brow. "And you aren't there because…?"

John shrugged bashfully. "Dunno. Figured I'd prefer to be here… with you."

At that, a kind of awkward silence overcame them and John looked away, licking his lips. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky and held it up to Sherlock. "Fancy a drink?"

Sherlock hummed. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

Grabbing a few glasses (which had miraculously appeared at John's will), John poured them both a sizable amount, reaching over to hand one to Sherlock. Sherlock took it from John's grasp gingerly, taking a sip and grimacing at the taste. John laughed fondly at his expression. "Let's just ignore the fact that it tastes like absolute bollocks, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned amusedly. "Of course."

With that, John slumped further into the sofa, taking a few large gulps. "I feel… rebellious." he confessed, grinning childishly.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, John. It's one drink."

"Mmm, that's where you're wrong." John teased, holding his bag up so that Sherlock could deduce the other bottle currently lying inside.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a bit, morphing into a grin. "Wow, John Watson really is a troublemaker. Who knew?"

John just smirked knowingly, taking another swig.

The two sat opposite, a companionable but slightly tense silence between them. In an effort to avoid talking about what had occurred a few nights ago, they simply continued to drink, half a bottle down much quicker than either had anticipated.

Overwhelmed by a sudden sense of courage, John straightened in his chair, a solemn expression overcoming his features.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, eyes partially dropped. "Huh?"

"I'm sorry. For yelling at you the other day. I was a prick and I had no right to treat you like shit."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh. Well then… Thank you for your apology, John."

John studied Sherlock's face carefully. "Do you forgive me?"

"That depends," started Sherlock, taking a small sip of his drink. "Are you going to tell me why you hit Michael?"

John took a sharp breath in. Of course. He should have expected the conversation to rear back this way. Mirroring Sherlock, John took a much larger sip of his drink, coughing slightly at the trademark burning sensation. "Maybe."

"John..." drawled Sherlock, sliding his foot forward to poke against John's softly. "Please, you can trust me."

John allowed his head to flop to the side. "I know I can trust you, silly. I just, I don't know… I don't even know why it scares me so much."

"Heh, silly. Here," Sherlock leaned forward to forcefully grab John's glass from his hand, pouring him another drink of Firewhisky which dribbled over the edges.

"Woah there, calm down." giggled John, taking the glass and bringing it immediately to his lips.

"Drink the whole glass. Then you can tell me why you hit Michael, I can forgive you, and we can live happily ever after."

"Are you encouraging me to get piss drunk so that I'll spill all my secrets?" John raised an eyebrow, attempting to wiggle it and failing miserably.

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face, concealing a chuckle. "Why John, your deduction skills are getting better by the day."

John's smile became wistful, and in high hopes, he brought his glass up to chug a few more mouthfuls of liquid courage. "Michael basically said he didn't want me sleeping near him anymore because I'm a fag."

And like warm breath in the morning air, Sherlock's smile was gone in an instant. "What?"

"That's why I punched him." John sighed. "I don't know, it was just all so sudden. They practically woke me up, started ganging up on me as though I owed them an _excuse_ for hanging out with you, and then Michael went ahead and said that, and I just… snapped."

"John."

"And I don't even know why I got so defensive about it, y'know?"

"John."

"I mean. All that stuff they were saying, it's all... t-t –"

"John. Stop." Sherlock's voice was forceful this time, and John's voice drifted off into complete silence.

"Michael..." Sherlock spoke slowly, as though searching for the perfect word. "Is a dick. And I'm glad you punched him."

John stared with shimmering eyes, and wondered how someone so wonderful ever came into his life.

"And..." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'm gay. If that makes whatever you were about to say any easier."

Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

John could have died on the spot.

"Well," John coughed awkwardly. "Guess that makes two of us. Kinda. I mean… I'm bisexual. Not gay. But in a sense, we're both gay. 'Cause, you know, we both..." John was interrupted by an eruption of deep chuckles emitting from Sherlock.

"Very eloquent, John."

John felt his ears burn in humiliation. "Why, thank you."

Soon, they were topping up their drinks again, and John wasn't quite certain of when they'd gotten around to opening the second bottle.

* * *

"So I said to him, I said, "Listen here, Snapey. John was saving my ass from these nasty pricks, so you better let him off easy.""

John's laughter turned into a wheeze, throwing his head back joyously. "You didn't call him Snapey, Sher, don't tell fibs."

"John, John, John. Look, look here," Sherlock's fingers lifted to point at his nose, eyes crossing slightly in an effort to keep sight of them. "It didn't grow. I'm not telling fibs."

"Sherlock!" John laughed. "You're not Pinocchio."

"But Jooohhhnnn," whined Sherlock. "I'm a real boy!"

That was the last straw. John was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, and it felt _good_. Leaning forward, John felt himself about to slip from the chair, and hurriedly moved to stabilise himself using Sherlock's knee.

He blinked, taking a moment to realise just how provocative a position it was, and awkwardly lifted his hand with a small shrug. "I don't mind." he found himself saying.

Sherlock grinned, cheeks flushed red. "Anytime." he mumbled quietly.

It was so nice. Sitting there, across from Sherlock. Nobody else mattered in that moment. Just the two of them against the rest of the world.

"Have I ever told you how amazing you are?" he slurred, leaning back in the armchair and allowing his feet to slide forward. At some point in the night, their shoes had been disposed off, and John reveled in the comfort his woolen socks provided.

"Mm, I can recall a few occasions, yes." Sherlock grinned, dopey. His feet moved to meet John's, entwining somewhere in the middle.

"Well, it's true. You're the most amazing person I've ever met. Annnddd… I don't care that you're a squib, you know."

Sherlock chuckled. "I should hope so, by now."

John wagged his finger. "No, I mean, I never did… Because, you know, Sherlock, magic is what you call, an um..."

"Gift from god?"

"Nope." John grinned. "An... unnecessity."

"An _unnecessity_?"

"Yeah. Unnecessity." John giggled.

Somewhere through the conversation, Sherlock had found the time to lean in much closer, and John swallowed thickly at their sudden proximity. He looked up at Sherlock through his lashes, bashful, and closely studied the features of the other boy's face. "You're very handsome. Have I told you that before?" he mumbled softly beneath his breath.

Sherlock shook his head softly. "That's a new one, actually."

John grinned wistfully, Sherlock's breath ghosting over his lips. "Well you are. Very handsome. And I'd very much like to kiss you now. I think."

"I think I'd like that very much."

Slowly inching forwatd to close the distance between them, John realised with a start that this was finally happening.

The kiss was hesitant, tender, filled to brim with curiosity, and John unwillingly found himself grinning against Sherlock lips. He allowed himself to savour the sensation of being this close – this intimate – and made sure to catalogue every detail. The feeling of stubble against his cheek, his nose squished against Sherlock's, and the way Sherlock lips seemed to linger everywhere they touched.

John's hands lifted to gently hold Sherlock's face between them, angling his head slightly in an effort to deepen the kiss. Sherlock hummed before pulling away reluctantly. "This is great, I assure you, but this position is just a tad uncomfortable right now."

Grinning, John shuffled back in his chair, gesturing for Sherlock to join him. "C'mere."

Sherlock didn't hesitate, crawling over awkwardly to kneel between John's legs. "You sure this is okay?"

"Positive." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down gently, engaging their lips once more.

Fingers buried deep in Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock's hands currently braced against his shoulders, John took the liberty of deepening the kiss, hesitantly probing Sherlock's lips with his tongue. He was rewarded with Sherlock's enthusiastic compliance, and John squeaked in shock at the sudden sensation of their tongues intertwining.

"Why on earth," he breathed, "haven't we thought to do this before?"

"Because we're both gay idiots who have no idea what we're doing."

John huffed a laugh. "I'd argue that at the moment, you know _exactly_ what you're doing."

"Well, I'm glad one of us does. You're absolutey hopeless." quipped Sherlock, evoking another loud bout of laughter from John. He pulled away to instead bury his face against Sherlock's stomach, body quivering with mirth.

"John, no, wait. I'm not done kissing yet."

"Don't worry, you berk, neither am I."

John didn't think he was ever going to be done with this brilliant boy. Not for a long, long time.

And with that thought, their lips were meeting once again, awkwardly and clumsily and John wouldn't have it any other way. Because he was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

And in that moment, everything else was just an unnecessity.


	4. Chapter 4

The two weeks following what John now dubbed, 'the drunken first kiss', was simply bliss. Though he still felt a divide between himself and the rest of his Hogwarts friends, the bond between Sherlock and himself had only served to grow exponentially. To put it frankly, John was on cloud nine. He had feared that the kiss might have made things awkward between the two of them, but in reality, it felt like this aspect of their relationship was only inevitable. Like he was destined to meet Sherlock, and they were destined to be together. Initially, they may have appeared to resemble chalk and cheese, but the two of them had more in common than John would have ever anticipated.

John and Sherlock had both awoken after that night with a searing headache, bodies curled uncomfortably on their armchairs with the aftertaste of Firewhisky lingering on their tongues. John recalled a sense of fondness enveloping him upon seeing Sherlock asleep, but this was soon overshadowed by a lurching in his gut and a sudden need for the loo. The Room of Requirement, immediately understanding, summoned one beside him, and John bundled over to empty his stomach.

With this unfortunate wake up call and a lack of coherent conversation the night prior, John was unsure of where their relationship stood, but apparently, he wasn't to be concerned. Sherlock had awoken soon after, eyes bleary but concerned, and had immediately stood to fetch some water and rub John's back. No words were spoken between them, but the silence was companionable, and John understood that Sherlock was likely feeling as crook as he was.

"I'm not ever drinking again." John mumbled, allowing his body to sink against Sherlock's behind him.

Sherlock hummed doubtingly. "That's quite the commitment."

"By that I mean for at least the rest of the year."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the back of John's neck. "Naturally."

John started at the sensation. " _Oh_."

"Not good?" Sherlock froze, voice laced with trepidation.

John turned so he was facing Sherlock and slid his hand forward so their fingers were touching. "No, that's… good. I just, um, wasn't quite sure where stood, y'know? After last night."

"What usually happens, then? After one kisses their best friend and thoroughly enjoys it."

John diverted his gaze to the floor, flustered. "Well, often they might, er, pursue a romantic relationship. Become boyfriends, perhaps."

Sherlock smiled, enthralled by John's bashfulness. "Boyfriends, hm? There's a term I could get used to."

Looking up, John smiled widely. "I suppose I could, too. _Boyfriend."_

Allowing his eyes to linger on Sherlock's face a moment longer, John then shifted from his position on the floor and made move to the opposite side of the room.

Sherlock grumbled in protest. "Where are you going?"

"I'd very much like to indulge in a morning kiss without vomit-breath, if that suits you." As John spoke, a sink appeared by the sofa, equipped with two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste. "Boy, I love this room."

"Oh, well… In that case." Sherlock jumped up eagerly to join John in brushing his teeth, the toilet by which he previously sat vanishing in an instant.

With their teeth now sparkling clean and their mouths tasting of mint, John and Sherlock didn't hesitate in pulling each other forward and engaging in their first sober kiss. Their lips pressed together softly with a newfound shyness and John's hand lifted slowly to caress Sherlock's cheek. It was slow and delicate, almost careful, but nonetheless left John with goosebumps prickling his skin and his knees weak. Sherlock's hands came to rest on the small of John's back, thumbs tracing small circles in reassurance. John wanted to stay there forever, kissing Sherlock, and never let go.

Which is practically what he did over the next two weeks. At every opportunity given, which included after classes, lunchtimes and weekends, Sherlock and John would meet either in the Room of Requirement or beneath a tree by the Black Lake, wrapped in each other's arms and hidden from speculating eyes. Sometimes they simply talked, about their childhoods, their interests and people they knew. Often, John would ask Sherlock to deduce those around them, watching with enraptured eyes as Sherlock unravelled life stories and secrets with a simple glance. And other times, which had become a personal favourite of John's, they simply kissed for what seemed to be hours on end. The kisses were slow and languid some days, fervent and zealous the next. John favoured them both equally, simply content to be secured in Sherlock's embrace.

Perhaps the only dismaying aspect of their newly developed romance was the incessant need to hide.

During Potions, neither boy let their gaze linger too long, being careful not to stir suspicion. The only time John could hold Sherlock's hand was in the safety of privacy, and he longed to express to the world how utterly besotted he was. But alas, limited by societal constraints, he was forced remain silent, listening to his housemates talk about their heterosexual dates and girlfriends with a bitter smile.

And so, when the official announcement of the Yule Ball finally rolled around in mid-December, it was safe to say John had mixed feelings.

"The Yule Ball will be a grand experience for all of you," spoke Professor Sprout. "A chance to let loose, have fun, and dance the night away."

John felt something akin to excitement stir in his gut. Sherlock had confessed to him some days ago that he was quite fond of dancing, and John was more than eager to indulge him.

"Now, as a ball, it is traditional – but not compulsory – for every attendee to have a partner. This event is for fourth years and above, but younger year levels are permitted if invited by an older student."

He was vaguely aware of Michael chatting eagerly beside him, his recent crush being a Hufflepuff from third year.

"In a moment I'll get you to pair up and practice your dancing. It'll be no good for us Hufflepuffs to embarrass ourselves on such an important night. Now, all partners are to be boy/girl, so up you get, boys. No need to be shy. Find a partner."

But John had already lost interest, shoulders immediately deflating at her words.

 _All partners are to be boy/girl._

Of course. Of fucking course. What had he even expected?

"Aye, too bad, Johnny!" jeered one boy from his year, Xavier, giving him a harsh slap on the shoulder. Michael sniggered beside him, and James looked as though he was tempted to join in. John kept his gaze firmly locked on the floor.

"C'mon now, Mr Watson. No use dawdling." came Professor Sprout's voice from the front of the room, nudging her head in the direction of the girls.

John stood awkwardly, scanning the crowd.

"Nah, Professor. John here might prefer to dance with me." laughed Xavier.

Professor Sprout gave them a befuddled expression.

"Isn't that right, Watson?" A firm hand clapped his shoulder, and John reacted before he even had time to think. He turned sharply and shoved Xavier away from him, hands balling into fists as the boy stumbled backwards in surprise.

The crowd of Hufflepuffs fell silent.

"Don't _fucking_ touch me, fag." sputtered Xavier, dusting off his robes.

John had never wanted so badly to hex another human being. But rather, he turned a shoulder and walked away, spotting Molly Hooper amongst the girls.

"Mr Watson! Mr Rogers! My office _immediately_ after we're finished here. And boys, find a partner, for Merlin's sake!"

John shoved his hands into his pockets, sheepish.

"Hey, Molly. Fancy a dance?"

"Sure, John. Are… Are you alright?"

John watched Sprout's demonstration carefully, placing his hands on Molly's waist. "Hm? Oh, yeah, of course."

Molly bit her lip, uncertain. "Those boys are awful, sometimes. The rumours of you haven't stopped."

"Let them have their fun. They obviously have nothing better to do."

"I don't know, John… Did something happen? Why don't you stand up for yourself?"

John shrugged, staring at the floor. "No point."

Molly sighed. "It's just so stupid. All because you made friends with Sherlock. I mean, yeah you guys are quite close, and sure, Sherlock is quite feminine, but that doesn't automatically mean you're gay. I mean, I know plenty of -"

"Molly." interrupted John, voice terse.

She paused, stunned.

"The rumours… they, er, aren't completely unwarranted."

"Oh."

John nodded slowly.

" _Oh."_

"Yeah..."

"Oh Merlin, John, I'm so sorry! That must be horrible to have them talking to you like that."

John hummed. "Yeah, I suppose. I just… I don't really know why it began in the first place, y'know? It hasn't really been too bad, but ever since I started hanging out with Sherlock, it's like I've turned into this completely different person. They don't even want to associate with me anymore. And they don't even _know_ I'm with Sherlock – they just assumed it."

Molly looked in deep thought, contemplating. "Have you toyed with the possibility of this not being about sexuality?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, um, I mean, as far as they're concerned, there's nothing actually going on between you and Sherlock, right?"

John nodded.

"So maybe… This is more to do with the fact that you've chosen someone else over them as a friend. It's probably a blow to their pride because they're your housemates and he's just a Potions apprentice who, em, can't do magic." Molly paused, unsure. "The whole idea of him being a squib and you wanting to hang out with him… they can't comprehend it without justifying it some other way, hence the slurs about sexuality."

John blinked a few times to process her words.

"Molly… You are a genius."

Molly squeaked and ducked her head, ears burning red. "Well, I wouldn't go that far..."

"It makes perfect sense. I mean… a while back they did also accuse me of ditching them. Merlin, I've been a rubbish friend. What do you suppose I do now?"

The fourth year looked up, eyes glowing with pride at the chance to be helpful. "Um, I, er… Suppose you could apologise, first. The calm before the storm," she giggled then, an awkward, high pitched sort of laugh. "And then maybe, give them an ultimatum."

"A _what_?"

"Like um… maybe tell them the truth, first. And then say, 'you can either accept that and we can go on being mates, or you can be a total prick about it and never talk to me again.'"

John nodded, eager, and laughed at Molly's expression. "I think that could work, yeah."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah, of course. Thanks, Molly."

Molly grinned widely. "No problem."

* * *

The current scene was all too familiar. John, seated in Sprout's office, with another Hufflepuff fifth-year by his side.

His eyes were similarly locked onto the floor below, but this time, John didn't plan to go down without a fight. His conversation with Molly had left something akin to hope inside him, and he prayed that Cedric had been right about Professor Sprout's so called 'understanding' nature.

"Right, boys. That display we all saw earlier was utterly horrendous. John – this is the second time you've been in my office within the last month. Does anybody care to explain first? Xavier?"

"I was just joking around, Professor, you heard. And then all of a sudden he just _shoved_ me. Like some _barbarian._ "

Merlin, John couldn't take this anymore. People walking all over him because they assumed he wouldn't fight back.

" _Joking around_?" sputtered John, looking up with fierce eyes. "Sorry, Professor, but this so called 'joking around' has been happening for weeks, and I'm struggling to see where the humour is."

"Care to elaborate, John?"

John was going to elaborate, all right. And he was going to fish the answers right out of Xavier.

"First of all, every Hufflepuff fifth-year refuses to sit with me in class. They've been bloody throwing slurs at me left and right, woken me up in the middle of the night, _moved their beds_ , for Merlin's sake. Apparently I'm not allowed to associate with them anymore and I'm not wanted in the dorms. Not to mention Sherlock has had to put up with constant harassment, too."

Concern had been gradually growing on Sprout's features as John spoke, but at the last statement, her expression morphed into one of confusion. "I'm sorry, John, but what does Mr Holmes have to do with all this?"

"That squib's got everything to do with this! He's been taking John away every blooming second, filling his head with shit, _infecting_ him. Of course we don't want you in the dorms anymore – you're never there to begin with!"

This came as a surprise to Sprout. And unfortunately, John hadn't anticipated Xavier bringing it up in conversation. "Pray tell, Mr Watson, why haven't you been in the dormitory?"

Xavier was standing now, as though he was eager to expose John's 'corruptness.' "Because he's been off every night with that apprentice! Coming in after curfew, wearing _his_ clothes, smelling like squib."

John held up a hand, and couldn't help the sarcasm from escaping. "Sorry Xavier, care to remind me what a _squib_ smells like again?"

"Oh, shut up, John. As if you don't know what I'm talking about."

"You jealous, Rogers?"

Xavier growled. "Like hell I'd be jealous of a fucking poof."

 _Bingo._

"Enough!" exclaimed Sprout, slamming her hands on the desk and standing up to loom over them. "Rogers, that is quite enough of that _abhorrent_ language. I was quite confused at first, but now I think I know exactly what's going on here."

John felt his hand twitch uncomfortably and he closed his fist to stop it shaking.

"I don't know the nature of Mr Watson and Mr Holmes relationship, and nor, quite frankly, do I care to know. But Hufflepuff is a house of loyalty and fairness, and the kind of behaviour you boys have been directing at John is far from both. It's blatant discrimination and I am ashamed to see it among my students. Mr Rogers, is it true that the other Hufflepuff boys have moved their beds?"

Xavier was seated again now, tense and red in the face. "Yes, ma'am." he muttered.

Sprout shook her head, disappointed. "I hate to do this, really, but I'm taking 50 points from Hufflepuff for these disturbing enlightenments. After I've finished with you both, I want all you boys to sit down among each other and sort this out. It's immature, selfish and it's obviously crippling our sense of house unity. Rogers, you are dismissed, but John – I'd like you to stay back and have a word."

John swallowed, suddenly overwhelmingly nervous. Had he just been officially outed to his head of house?

"Yes, Professor."

Xavier walked out solemnly, shooting one last indecipherable look over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

"John."

John looked up, face red.

"You could have told me, you know."

John simply shrugged.

"Though I may seem intimidating as an authority figure, I am first and foremost your head of house. I care about all of my students, and I most of all care if they are feeling unsafe or unwelcome. I despise bigotry and discrimination, John, and you were a victim of both. I apologise for not realising sooner."

"It's no problem, ma'am."

Professor Sprout smiled warmly. "Unfortunately John, staying out after curfew is against the Hogwarts rules. I'm aware it may be tempting – especially considering Mr Holmes is not a student here – however there is no excuse. I'm not your mother, I know, but I am your head of house, and hence I need to set an example for my students."

John nodded grimly. "I understand. I'm really sorry, Professor."

"It's no worries, John. Just understand that if there is anything wrong, you can come talk to me, okay? Is there anything else before I dismiss you?"

John hesitated. "Actually, Professor… Is it true that partners for the Yule Ball can only be boy/girl?"

At this, Professor Sprout deflated. "I'm sorry, John. It _is_ tradition. I could try talking to Professor McGonagall regarding the matter if -"

"No, er, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, John, if you're sure."

"I am, Professor. Er… Thanks for all this, by the way. I suppose I'll see you in class."

"That you will, John." The Hufflepuff head of house smiled once again, though this time, the light failed to reach her eyes. She looked sorrowful – sympathetic, almost – and watched John leave with with a sort of hidden concern.

* * *

John purposely avoided bringing up the Yule Ball around Sherlock from that day forth. It was no use if he couldn't invite him to begin with, and he didn't want to get Sherlock's hopes up only to slam him back down again. Decorations in the Great Hall had gradually started to celebrate the Christmas festivities, but John was finding it difficult to be infected with the same joy as the rest of the cohort.

"Professor Snape is making me stay behind for a few lunches this week to prepare some potions. They're really interesting, John. Did you know Veritaserum isn't always accurate due to how the user perceives the 'truth'?"

John watched Sherlock ramble with a small grin on his face, captivated by his excitement and expression. The weather at Hogwarts had been getting progressively colder over the past few weeks, and so the two of them were bundled up by the fire in Sherlock's personal quarters. He'd been surprised when Sherlock first proposed them sitting in there as opposed to the usual Room of Requirement, but found the space to be just as comfortable and very Sherlock-esque. Books were strewn everywhere, with many packed unevenly in the bookshelf to accommodate the expansive collection, and potion recipes seemed to lie on every surface. The sitting room was home to a desk, a small dining table, a large sofa and a fireplace, beside of which sat Sherlock's personal kitchen/laboratory. Here, it seemed as though potions were brewing constantly, and though the smell turned John away at first, he learned to become accustomed to it.

Past the small lab was a short hallway, which led to the remaining two rooms of the quarters: the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom. John had been in neither yet, in fear of violating Sherlock's privacy, but a part of him hoped that he and the bedroom would not be unacquainted for much longer.

Perhaps the only downfall to this area was the fact that it was adjacent to Snape's own quarters, a concept that left John slightly uncomfortable.

"So, he has the password? He can just come in here… whenever he likes?"

"That _is_ just what I said, John. Do keep up."

Snape hadn't yet caught them snogging, but John wasn't willing to take too many chances.

He was snapped back into reality by Sherlock gently calling his name.

"-ohn? John?"

John blinked. "Oh, sorry. Hm?"

"I was just asking if you'd be alright spending those lunches in the Great Hall. I likely won't be allowed company."

John nodded. "Yeah, of course I'll be 'right. On that note, er… I can't really stay after curfew anymore, either." He paused, flushing pink. "Sprout figured out I was coming back to the dorms late."

Sherlock visibly slumped at this. "Oh."

"Don't worry, though! Christmas holidays are soon, we'll be able to spend lots of time together."

"I suppose, yeah." Sherlock hummed dejectedly.

John regarded him with fond eyes. He opened his arms wide in invitation. "C'mere, love."

Sherlock immediately lifted from his position by the desk to join John on the couch, falling naturally into John's embrace. "I'll be bored without you."

"I'll be here every other time of the day, basically. Just not after curfew."

Sherlock visibly pouted at this – _pouted –_ and nestled further into John's arms. "But nobody else is around then. It's the best time of day."

John pressed a kiss into Sherlock's hair. "You ought to be asleep then." he mumbled.

"Dull. There's so many better things to be doing."

"Like?" John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked up at John then, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, I don't know," he murmured, hands lifting to fiddle with John's tie. "Maybe something like this?"

And then they were kissing. A familiar sensation by now but nonetheless a sensation John would never tire of. Sherlock's tongue probed against his lips and John opened compliantly, shifting in the sofa so that his head could lie against the arm rest. What began softly was soon developing into something else, with Sherlock's knees straddling John's own and body pressing against him eagerly. John sighed contentedly into Sherlock's mouth, slipping his hands beneath Sherlock's shirt and relishing in the sensation of his fingers against Sherlock's skin.

He'd never experienced a breathlessness like this. It was addictive.

Before he could quite comprehend where it was going, their fingers were fumbling over each other's buttons clumsily and Sherlock's lips were drifting away from John's own. Instead, they pressed against his cheekbone, drifted down to his jawline and settled against his neck, kissing and sucking and licking until John was left gasping beneath him.

"Sherlock," he breathed, neck arched to allow better access.

"John," Sherlock murmured against his skin, hot breath sending shivers down John's spine.

John buried his fingers into Sherlock's curls, tugging gently so that he could kiss Sherlock's lips once more. He wasn't quite certain when his tie had been removed or when Sherlock's shirt had been completely unbuttoned, but didn't really care to ponder, simply savouring the view of Sherlock's bare chest. It was porcelain white, as though it had never seen the sun, and John marvelled at its sheer perfection.

"You are beautiful," he mumbled, reaching up to press a closed-mouth kiss against Sherlock's collarbone. He felt Sherlock tense slightly above him, before relaxing into the touch. His cheeks were red and he stared down at John with such affection that John was losing his breath all over again.

"What did I do to deserve someone like you?" Sherlock mumbled, leaning down to kiss John tenderly on the mouth.

"You don't need to do anything to warrant my affections, Sherlock. We have each other because I like you and you like me too. That's all there is to it."

Sherlock smiled authentically at this, cheeks red and eyes shimmering. He dropped against John so that their bodies were pressed against each other and his face could nestle comfortably against the crook of John's neck. "Thank you for liking me." he whispered.

And it broke John's heart.


End file.
